


Jig Is Up, News Is Out

by Port



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-12
Updated: 2009-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-04 04:03:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2908646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Port/pseuds/Port
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Night Shifter. In which Sam doesn't go postal (or buy stamps).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jig Is Up, News Is Out

**Author's Note:**

> Written for random_serious's birthday! Thank you to Smilla and essenceofmeanin for beta'ing.

Sam has always prided himself on Not Freaking Out. Dad hands you a Glock and says be careful not to shoot your brother when you take down the closet monster? Well, either you freak out or you don't, and Sam had not.

It's instinct, being unflappable, and Sam has had long years of practice.

Good thing, too. Because steely calm is the only thing on his side today at the post office. Nerves of solid rock are the only barrier between Sam and a heart attack. Indeed, stopped mid-step in the busy teller room, Sam's essential Zen-ness may be the only blockade against disaster. 

And speaking of disaster, it would just figure Dean is at the root of it.

Well, to be precise, Dean's mug shot is at the root of it, one in a row of FBI Most Wanted posters lining the wall.

Frozen and unblinking, Sam can do little more than stare. _This is not good._

Furtively, he glances around, not worried so much about the family resemblance (though everyone says it's obvious) as the danger of drawing attention to himself.

No one appears to have noticed him yet. Good. Dean is in the lobby, checking their post office box. One too-telling move from Sam, and someone in the long lines behind him might see the poster, recognize Dean, and get them busted.

Clearly, this situation would demand particular care. 

He sticks his thumbs into his pockets, affects an expression of boredom, decides against whistling, and shuffles closer to the wall of infamy. Dean's picture shares company with a number of guys Sam wouldn't want to meet in a dark alleyway. (Not that Sam couldn't take them. Just, you know. On principle.)

And it would figure Dean would smirk into the camera, leaving a vivid impression of himself for anyone who happened to glance over. _Smooth, Dean. And, hey, way to show them you're innocent._

Then again, he's watched Dean trying to pull off a sincere expression; it's hopeless. And Sam has to admit it's hard to look innocent in a mug shot.

Unthinkingly, Sam reaches over, intent on pulling down the poster. Just as suddenly, he snatches his hand back. Inconspicuousness, he reminds himself, is the word of the day.

So he sneaks a few more quick looks to the left and the right. Just a bunch of people standing in line with their packages and letters. Sam had come in to buy stamps; he could be one of them now, standing impatiently with nowhere to rest his eyes but on the packaging for sale along one wall, the signs explaining shipping rates, the lonely outpost of Army recruitment materials, or the row of belligerent faces (not counting Dean's) staring out from under the heading, "WANTED by the FBI."

Fortunately, no one seems to have noticed Dean's likeness—yet. But anyone passing by Dean in the lobby is going to recognize him, so Sam has to get them out of here.

He finds Dean at the post office boxes in the lobby, muttering to himself. He's twisting the little key in the lock, only to stop, curse, pull out the key and shake it, then try again. By the time Sam reaches his side (blocking him from view of the teller room as best as possible), Dean has repeated the process twice.

"Dean—"

"Hey, you got your stamps?"

"No, actually—"

"What the hell is with this? It worked last time we were here." He pounds on the box cover, making Sam flinch and snatch his wrist.

"Shh!" he hisses.

"Dude." Dean wags the hand in Sam's grip. "Are we having a moment?"

Sam twists his head around. Fortunately, no one's in the lobby with them. "Dean, don't draw any attention right now. I think we're in trouble."

"Well, yeah, since we're in the Midwest and all, the handholding might not go over so—"

He throws Dean's hand back at him. "Look, there's a poster of you in the other room. It says you're wanted for murder—"

"Shh!" Dean hisses, punching him on the arm.

"Sorry," Sam hisses back. "It says you're wanted for murder. Well, mostly for murder. That's not the only charge. We've got to get out of here."

Dean nods. "You're right. Hey, open this box for me? We still need the new cards." Dean hands him the key, pats him on the shoulder and starts away. Sam wishes he wouldn't saunter; it's not exactly calculated to deflect attention.

"Sure," Sam says. "Meet you at the car." He'll just have to hope no one has already called the police.

"Hm? Oh, yeah, in a minute."

Sam doesn't worry about Dean's answer until a few seconds later, when he looks over his shoulder and sees him heading for the teller area. _What the hell?_

Leaving the key in the lock, head down, not making eye contact with anyone, Sam follows his brother.

His brother, wanted by the FBI for _murder_. His brother, the spitting image of that grinning fool on the wall. His idiot brother, standing hipshot in front of his picture, making no secret of his interest in it. 

Sam forgets himself and smacks his own forehead.

Dean has leaned across to read the small print below his name, bracing one arm casually against the wall, trailing his index finger down the long list of charges against him. He stops at one item and raises an eyebrow.

Incipient self-implosion, Sam decides, is about right. Yes, that about perfectly sums up his state of mind. He'd yell, but the room is still full of people. Who knows how many of them are armed? 

Fortunately, no one in line has noticed the man ogling his own FBI flyer like it's the hottest girl in the whole bar. Sam takes a deep, steadying breath.

"What are you doing?" he hisses in Dean's ear.

"Hey, you got that box open already? Thing was a bitch…."

"Dean."

Dean points at the poster. "You think they got my good side?" He studies the photo for a second and runs a hand through his hair.

"It's not a mirror, and you don't have a good side, Dean. Come on, we have to get out of here now."

"Why? Because of this?"

Sam does his best to look nonplussed. It takes true effort.

"Sammy. Who was the last person you ever saw get arrested because someone noticed his poster hanging on a wall?"

When Sam doesn't answer, Dean continues. "The occasional guest star on Gunsmoke, right? You see, that sort of thing doesn't happen in real life. You're getting all worked up over nothing."

"I am not worked up."

"Come on." Dean grins and pokes his chest. "I can see the smoke coming out of your ears."

Sam huffs. "Fine. Whatever. Can we go?"

Dean holds up a finger and digs through his pockets. "In a minute. Here."

Automatically, Sam takes the cell phone. "You want me to… call somebody?" But he has a sinking feeling.

A sinking feeling proven correct when Dean turns his back to the wall and angles his head next to the poster, wearing his best toothy smile, and makes a double thumbs-up. "One or two shots, then we can go."

"Dean!"

"Shh! You're drawing attention to us!"

" _I'm_ drawing—" He turns around and, to his horror, finds a few people looking over at them. His fight or flight response stalls out, though, when it hits him that they're all… amused. In counterpoint, Sam is appalled and dismayed. He and Dean aren't just two guys joking around. Don't those people realize a serial killer is in their midst?

He turns back to Dean, still posing expectantly for his shot. "I'm going to kill you," Sam promises.

"Good. Next time it can be your pretty mug decorating the wall. Let's get on with it, huh?"

Sam takes the picture. Dean accepts his camera back and looks happier than he has in months. When no one stops them from heading back to the lobby, Sam considers maybe it was worth the risk to see Dean lighten up a little. Still, though. It makes Sam wonder. "Who in the world are you going to show that to, Dean?"

Dean shrugs. "It's for my scrapbook."

"You did it to annoy me," he covers, because now he feels bad for asking. In the past, Dean probably wouldn't have hesitated to send the picture to Dad, who would have gotten a reluctant kick out of it before raising hell.

And Dad's gone now. Sam makes a mental note to ask Dean for a copy of the snapshot—if they make it out of the post office with their freedom intact. Just one stop for their mail, and they might yet escape unnoticed.

In the lobby, Dean frowns at the wall of locked mailboxes. "You got the key, Sammy?"

"No, I left it in the… lock." Which is empty, the little door still shut tight. "Someone took our key!"

"Probably an employee. I'll go ask for it back."

"No you won't!" Sam grabs his sleeve.

Dean blinks. "Okay. Good point. Come here." He pulls Sam close up to their box and nods at it.

"Dean."

"I'll stand cover for you."

"Dean, I'm not going to pick the lock on our post office box in the middle of the day."

"What, you want to come back in the middle of the night? 'Cause I have a feeling you won't be happy till we're on the road out of this burg, the way you're freaking out on me here."

"I am not freaking out."

"Oh, yeah?"

Sam catches himself before he spits out a petulant "yeah." 

"I never freak out, Dean. But there are people all over the place. We're going to get caught."

"No, we're not. You know why? Because nobody picks a lock in the middle of a crowded post office during the noon rush."

Sam frowns. "You realize you're gambling our entire future on a Douglas Adams gag."

"Douglas who?"

"Dean."

"You know, the longer we argue out here, the sooner the FBI is gonna hone in on us. The building will be surrounded in no time."

At least now Dean is taking this serious—or just messing with Sam as the case may be. "You're such a dick." But Sam already has his lock picks in hand. "Stand cover for me."

Dean's smug about it, but keeps a good lookout. A man passes by, and Dean plays it off with a shrug and what he must believe is a casual smile. "Key's stuck in the lock," he says. "We're trying to pry it out." The guy nods and walks on, out the building, even though there's plainly no key in sight.

Sometimes, Sam wonders. Occasionally about other people, but mostly about Dean.

The little door pops open. "Got it." Sam stuffs his picks back into his pockets, only half-noticing as Dean pushes him aside to reach in.

"Oh, yeah. I get to be Malcolm Young again!"

Yep. He's always wondering about Dean.

Dean holds up an envelope with a Mastercard logo. "Sweet. You can be Angus!"

Sam shifts from foot to foot. "On the run from the law here, remember?" "Yeah, yeah, hold your—"

A woman's shriek interrupts him. "Oh, my God! That's the man in the wanted poster!"

Sam spins around. Across the room, a middle-aged woman has dropped a package on the floor and stands pointing in terror at him and Dean. The entire post office goes silent as everyone in the lobby and the teller area stops what they're doing and stares at the pointing woman.

"Time to go," Sam bites out. Dean grimaces back at him, and they turn—

—just in time for a man to push past them and dash toward the exit.

"Don't let him get away!" the woman screams.

Sam stops short and meets Dean's confused look.

"What, you mean that guy?" Dean calls, pointing at the nondescript man racing for the far door. She bobs her head up and down, eyes wide. 

Dean turns a delighted grin on Sam before taking off. For his part, Sam can only watch Dean outpace the fleeing man and tackle him to the floor.

"I'm never going to hear the end of this," Sam mutters. He gathers up the mail Dean dropped, listening in disgust to his brother loudly declaring a citizen's arrest.

Everyone in the building hurries past Sam to swarm around Dean, who's holding down the would-be fugitive with a knee pressed between the guy's shoulder blades. 

"Nobody panic," someone says. "I've called the police. They're on their way."

Of course they are. Sam elbows his way over to Dean, who appears impressed and not at all displeased with the attention. The guy on the linoleum groans miserably.

"Come on!" he moans. "I just wanted to buy stamps! Those posters are supposed to be freakin' useless."

_If it weren't for you darned kids_ , Sam thinks absently, looking for a way to extricate his brother before the cops show up.

The woman whose shriek had taken five years off Sam's life edges up to Dean and the fugitive. The other fugitive. She holds out one of the wanted posters from the other room. "I have a photographic memory. One glimpse at that man and I knew I had seen his picture." Dean raises an eyebrow at the sheet of paper and smirks at Sam. 

Whatever brings that glint to Dean's eye can't be good, but Sam still angles himself for a look.

"Oh, my God." 

It's one of those rough, black and white sketches drawn from description, the sort of picture that looks more like a photocopied photocopy of a department store dummy than a realistic likeness. The woman kneels and holds the paper next to what can be seen of the guy's face. Sam squints and cocks his head.

"It looks nothing like him!"

"It's me." The guy sighs into the linoleum. "I'm sick of being on the run. Can't even buy stamps."

"That's beside the point," Sam says. "How in the hell do you recognize some stranger off a bad drawing and not a perfectly clear photo—"

" _O-kay_ , time to go," Dean cuts in. "Someone want to sit on this dude for me? Thanks. Come on, Sam."

Dean hustles Sam out of the building, where the fresh air does nothing at all for his risen blood pressure.

"What are you thinking?" He cuffs Sam over the head. "Hurry up. We need to get a move on." Sam follows in a daze. "Seriously, Sammy. You need to learn to keep your cool a little better. Can't go freaking out all the time."

_Be careful not to shoot your brother when you take down the closet monster_ , Dad had said. Well, what did he know?

**The End**


End file.
